


This Desert Place

by iberiandoctor (jehane)



Series: A Journal of Birds [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert lives, Diary/Journal, Epistolary, Javert's Diary, M/M, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss, Pining, Rue Plumet, Still Working the Bird Metaphors, Veiled References to Past Accidental Revenge Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 16:27:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13217619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehane/pseuds/iberiandoctor
Summary: Of all the dwellings in all of France, an eagle and an owl might choose this desert place to make their nest.





	This Desert Place

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Year, Les Mis fandom ♥ I thought I'd celebrate with more ducklingsfic, as one does...

_27 December, 1833_

It has been some months since I last took up my pen to set down my thoughts, in this personal account of the life of the former Inspector Javert.

It was a practice I had started many years ago, as a young adjutant-guard in the bagne of Toulon, on the instructions of my superiors. I believed that periodically making unofficial notes of my experiences would improve my powers of observation as well as my penmanship, and would also stand as a documentary record of active investigations and other matters of import that took place on any given day or month.

And thus I found myself keeping a lengthy journal, which describes my life’s journey from Toulon, to my position at Montreuil-sur-Mer and then my years as a police inspector in Paris, to this quiet retirement at No. 55 Rue Plumet in the Invalides district. 

It is also an account of my encounters with the man Jean Valjean.

As I have set out at length in these volumes, I first knew him as a convict named Jean-le-Cric, whom I spent years trying to unmask when he was the mayor Madeleine of Montreuil, and whom I pursued relentlessly to Paris. Despite the wrongs I have done him, he saved my life at the barricades of the Rue de la Chanvrerie in the midst of last year’s insurgency, rescued me once again from the river, and opened both his home and his heart to me.

The young guard I was at the start of this journal would barely have believed his life could have come to this end. The rigid inspector would have shouted and railed and had me arrested for dereliction of duty, or a permanent departure from my senses. And in truth my journey to this old house with its wild, sheltering garden has been a long and difficult one, filled with unprofessional rage and unworthy self-doubt. But the man I have become seems to have moved beyond anger, and self-denial, and indeed the harsh justice that used to drive the inspector that I was, that is not justice in truth under God.

Indeed, against all expectations, I seem to have arrived at a place of peace. It is such an unexpected place, and has brought such unexpected contentment, that the inspector might well be right after all — I might have taken leave of my senses. And the most unexpected part is, even if that were truly the case, I find I do not mind at all.

This is demonstrated by the following case in point: today an invitation to a New Year’s Eve party arrived, from the Baron and Baroness Pontmercy. Valjean’s daughter Cosette and her new husband invited us to their house to celebrate the Révellion de la Saint-Sylvestre. Both of us. 

I saw the happiness in Valjean’s eyes when the card arrived, on gilt-edged paper, conveyed by the Pontmercy carriage. I was glad the whole business with Valjean’s past had been finally made known to the children — keeping himself away from them was truly ridiculous as well as unjust — and that the boy Marius in particular has learned to esteem his father-in-law in the way that he should. 

“We would be happy to attend,” Valjean said to the footman. Then he paused and looked hesitantly at me. “That is to say, the invitation is very kind, but I should see if M. Javert is available on that day.”

I rolled my eyes. Valjean looked somewhat stricken, and I regretted my conduct. “Why would I not be available?” I found myself remarking. “I can think of no more pleasant way to spend an evening.”

Valjean’s eyes widened at this. I was surprised at myself. I am a man who does not lie, but it seems I have learned to dissemble somewhat. 

 

***

 

_31 December, 1833_

I clearly underestimated my ability to dissemble. Either that, or I have, in my declining years, become an optimist.

Either way, this evening has been excruciating. I cannot fathom what possessed me to agree to come, let alone in as unqualified a manner. 

Perhaps the cause was the thought of Valjean’s disappointment. My benefactor has had very little in his life to be happy about. He grew up in abject poverty, and wasted his youth in the bowels of Toulon. He spent the next decade and a half in the shadows, on the run from the law, and from me. It was a life of deprivation, in which meagre moments of happiness were eked out only after much effort, and as rare as flowers in the desert. 

His child has always been the one bright spot in his life, and I could not in good conscience deny him this evening spent at her side.

The Pontmercy house is too large, and too bright, the chandelier lit for the celebrations and the mirrors and windows polished to a high sheen. There are many candles, some of which I took the liberty of relocating to a safe distance from the more flammable furnishings. There are also flowers everywhere, which is a sheer extravagance in winter. There are too many people, and I was compelled to make polite conversation with them. It takes a great deal of effort to approximate an interest regarding matters which are of no interest to me, and with people that I have no interest in, though many others seem to manage well enough.

At least Valjean seems to be enjoying himself. Cosette is the spirit of the party, all eyes upon her admiring, and none more so than her proud papa's.

When the dancing started I managed to make my escape — to this room, in which I am writing this note. It looks to be Marius’s study. There are some legal textbooks, and several rather disorderly files strewn about. I recall Valjean mentioning that the boy has sought admission to the Paris Bar; from a cursory glance at these files, it appears he even has some clients.

I hear the popping of champagne corks outside. Very soon the traditional toasts will start, and étrennes will be exchanged. I was told the Pontmercys have decided to exchange gifts before midnight, so that Cosette might retire earlier if she so wishes. 

I have prepared for this moment. I have a novel for the lady of the house, and an improving pamphlet on civil society for the young Baron. And for my benefactor, I have a small engraving of five birds in a small nest that I happened upon in a small store of antiques along the Rue du Jardin du Roi. 

Clearly I have become unexpectedly sentimental in my old age, but I thought the reminder of our summer ducks would bring a smile to Valjean’s face. Let us now venture into the breach, and see if I am right.

  
  
  
 

 _Later, still 31 December._

I was wrong, laughably wrong, and it is no one’s fault but my own. After all, I used to think I was right about everything, and it took Jean Valjean’s mercy to show me that I had, for so many years, been completely and utterly wrong. Why should tonight be an exception?

I was right about the gift, at least. Valjean took it and unwrapped it; when he saw what it was, his eyes shone in a way that warmed me, despite the cold of the night outside. 

“Our ducks!” said he. “Thank you, Javert. I will put this on the mantel at home. And I also have something for you…”

He handed me a small box. I opened it and discovered a fountain pen with a steel nib and a reservoir of ink.

"Do you like it? I thought you might enjoy writing your notes with one of these new pens, rather than the old pen and ink that you used at the station house.”

I did not know what to say. It was an extremely thoughtful present, and beyond extravagant. “I like it very much,” I found myself saying, at last. “Thank you.”

It was then that I realised his hands still held mine. “You have been very patient tonight,” he said. “I know you are not fond of social events, and in truth, neither am I.”

There was no disguising it; I was flustered by his warm touch. It aroused feelings I had thought buried decades ago in Montreuil. 

I tried to make a joke. “Make no mistake. It is not as if I am not accustomed to social events. I am just not accustomed to events at which no crimes are being committed.”

"All the more so, then!" Valjean said, with his faint, wry smile. "It strikes me that you only agreed to come for my sake, which is very kind."

I was somewhat perturbed by this comment. Kindness seemed like a form of dishonesty, and I did not wish this generous man to think I was merely humouring him for some false end. "It is not kindness. I find I indeed wish to be where you are, and for you to have the things that give you happiness."

Valjean looked very taken aback. He pressed my hands awkwardly, and then let them go, as if unsure of how to reject an unwanted gift. 

"You think too highly of me," he said. This was unsurprising: Valjean is a very modest man, reluctant to indulge himself in any way — I discovered I have to insist that Toussaint bakes white bread for our table, rather than the hard black bread Valjean would eat if left to his own devices, and on lighting the fire in the grate even in the heart of winter. It is as if Valjean believes he is undeserving; as if he still sees himself as that convict who has committed crimes, the way I used to see him.

Maybe this was why I could not now bear to hear him speak this way. "I disagree," I told him, with the best of intentions. "There is no one who ought to be thought of as highly." Certainly not after all he had done for his family, for me. 

I did not say this, but perhaps he understood it anyway. 

"You are a good friend," he told me softly. "And I have made you put up with enough tonight. Come, let us give Cosette and Marius our best wishes, and then we can take our leave."

Valjean was as good as his word. We raised our glasses, then made our apologies, and then we left the large glittering house in Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire for our small refuge.

It was a relief to be back at Rue Plumet. The good Toussaint had left the fire smouldering in the grate; it took only a few prods to coax it back to life. We took off our coats and hats and stood before the fireplace, its warmth welcome against the cold of this winter night. 

Valjean put the engraving on the mantelpiece in the centre of the room. Then he walked over to me and sat beside me on the couch. We both surveyed the latest addition to the décor. "It looks well there, don't you think?" he murmured.

"It does," I said. I knew he had seated himself beside me so that he could see how the picture looked from where I was sitting, and for no other reason. And yet I could not help feeling the warm press of his thigh aligned on the couch against mine as if it were as hot as the grate itself.

We had passed the evening in this way under this roof on so many nights like this one, in more peace and contentment than the young guard could have ever believed possible. In a way that the inspector would have believed was a trap. But I knew better, of course.

I should have realised it then. It was sheer greed to want more than this: this fire, this humble shelter, the companionship of this good man who had endured so much and forgiven so much. A person who has done the harm I have done in my life would certainly not deserve any of it.

And yet, the man I have become — greedy, foolish, utterly wrong — believed there could be more.

I wondered whether I should continue to allow Valjean to sit so closely beside me. It was something in truth I used to dream about in Montreuil, though I then told myself it was so that I could reach out to the false mayor and uncover the scars on his body that would prove he was an ex-convict. Now that I have spent more than a year in this house, Valjean has made entirely free with the proof I once so desired to obtain, not stinting from shirtsleeves that bared his scarred forearms, or an old nightshirt that displayed the strong flanks and straining shoulders I once saw lifting a cart. As he did this night, cravat loose around his throat, waistcoat and cuffs casually unfastened, the powerful body divested of its outer garments and defenceless before my gaze. 

Under other circumstances, I might have welcomed the man’s physical proximity. The young guard had never dreamed of a sweetheart, and the inspector had never had the inclination to marry. Over the years I came to realise that I had no desire for any woman, and after these last few months of self-examination under Valjean’s roof I have arrived at my suspicions as to why that might be. I may not have ever indulged, but after decades as a policeman I know what men do in the dark, and what they do with each other in the dark: it is a thing no longer illegal under the Code Penal, provided no minor is being corrupted.

It is a thing no longer illegal, and something I might desire instead of the love of any woman. It might even be a thing I only desire with Jean Valjean — the real thing I desired from him in all these years of relentless pursuit.

I did not believe that he would ever feel similarly, however. It was truly enough to live in his house, more than I deserved. And yet, I have permitted myself to remark upon each of the rare times he touches my arm, the still rarer times he smiles at me, as if I was in fact allowed to wish for more. 

Unsettled as I was by Valjean’s proximity, I failed at first to notice that he was looking at me as if waiting for me to say something. Then I had no clue what I was expected to say. Finally, Valjean had to take it upon himself to speak more directly.

“And your pen, Javert… I did not buy you new ink, but I believe the old ink will do well enough.”

I took the pen out of the inner pocket of my jacket. The firelight played along its slim length. It was an entirely fanciful thought, but I almost believed the pen might be able to re-write the entire sorry story of my life, and of Valjean’s. 

“I would not be used to new ink, I believe,” I said, for the want of something better to say. “I have thirty years of notes using the standard ink. It would be an adjustment to change to another.”

Valjean looked interested. “You hardly speak of your notes,” he said. “It is clearly a habit that absorbs you. I did notice you making fewer of them of late, though. Perhaps the new pen might be an encouragement to continue?”

I had not realised Valjean had noticed. Also, I could not, of course, speak further about my notes, dealing as they did with the subject of Valjean himself, and going into the length and detail that they did regarding the said subject. I felt abruptly hotter, with a heat that did not come from the fire.

“Perhaps,” I said. “Thank you. It is far too extravagant, Valjean, you should not have given me this gift. I should be indulging less in the notes, in any event.”

Valjean protested, “I like to watch you writing. The nights when I sat reading, and you were writing in your corner? They were enjoyable.” He paused, and it looked to me as if he were flushing, though it could have just been the flames. “After Cosette’s wedding, and the ducklings were grown, the house has seemed quite empty. I have been glad of your company. In fact, I have come to realise that you have been a great succour.” He glanced at me, a brightness in his eye. “I would say that it was kind of you, but I recall you took objection to that phrasing. Rather, you have been a good friend, and to be able to say that of you is a surprise in itself.”

“Indeed,” I managed to say. It was ridiculous to feel unsteady, yet unsteady I felt, and perilously so. “For so many years I have given you every reason to think the worst of me.”

He looked genuinely surprised. “Do you still think so? I had believed that we had moved beyond that. I had no doubt you were just doing your duty. And when you understood what mercy was — why, then — you have done all that anyone could have, and more, to make amends. I have seen how you have become your best self.”

Valjean reached for my hand, but I knew I could not accept his comfort. “You are mistaken,” I told him. What had I done? Left the police, taken up a quiet retirement shelving books, handing out alms to widows and orphans at Valjean’s side. How could that have made reparation for a woman hounded to her death, a man’s life destroyed? It could not.

I told him as much; he flinched as if my words were actual blows. “Stop,” he said, at last. “Javert. You are not unworthy. No matter what you think.”

I finally took hold of his hand; it was a physical pain to see him so grieved. “I cannot help but see myself that way,” I told him.

He looked at our linked fingers, then raised his eyes to my face. “I do not see you that way,” he said, quietly. “In fact, I wonder if we can be of even more succour to each other.”

There was something in his eyes that I could not recognise nor hope to understand. In a moment of weakness, I took it to be an invitation. Something I might have desired instead of the love of any woman, and the thing I only truly ever desired with Jean Valjean.

I found myself clasping him in my arms, and found myself clasped in his arms. We pressed our lips to each other’s; we pressed ourselves so closely together I could hear the thunder of his heart. We breathed each other’s rapid, disbelieving breaths, sharing a first kiss and first kisses that were hot and frantic and not enough.

I made fists in his shirt. I felt the sinewy muscles that the inspector had wished so desperately to restrain. I wanted to taste with my tongue the scars on his back left by the bagne.

I could not allow this. I was undeserving, unworthy, a fraud who had hidden his deepest desires from his unsuspecting benefactor, but had written them down in copious detail, about uncovering scars and brands and heaving loins, for anyone to read.

I pulled away. I suffered the look of confusion in his clouded eyes. 

“I can’t,” I told him, “I was wrong.” Wrong to think I could do enough, make sufficient reparation, to merit such undeserved happiness. The journals were evidence enough — the inspector’s obsessions with thighs and shoulders and Madeleine’s unswerving goodness, that were in truth mine and no one else’s.

I knew I could not in good conscience permit Jean Valjean to believe me worthy of his affections, to embrace me, when he was unaware of the shameful contents of these volumes. Of how the inspector saw him. How _I_ saw him.

Nobody could be expected to countenance such a horror, let alone this man whom the world has already harmed enough.

I should not have forgotten, or expected there could be more.

Somehow, I forced myself from his side. I was shivering as I had done in the throes of the fever that gripped me the last summer. I staggered up the stairs to the room his generosity had assigned to me. I took my clothes off. I performed my ablutions. I studied my face in the glass as if it were an undiscovered country.

Then I took up the new pen I had been given, and I set this account down in writing.

I sat at my desk for a very long time. I gradually realised I was not entirely alone. There was someone else on the other side of the door, leaning against the frame, breathing deep and slow. It could only be one person.

We sit on either sides of this door, he and I. I am in an unprecedented state, a place entirely unfamiliar to me, with no instructions or orders to show the way.

From far away, I fancy I can hear the sound of church bells as they strike midnight, heralding the new year.

I am not sure what I ought to do. And yet, I feel my life is on the knife’s edge of decision. I must choose, before my indecision proves unworthy of us both. 

 

***

 

_1 January, 1834_

Today I have an event of note to report. It may be the most important event in my life. 

We have experienced many things, Jean Valjean and I. Summers and winters, so many years together as adversaries; so few as friends, and now, as more.

The Lark may have married, and the yellow ducklings from the Luxembourg may have moved on, as life and children must. 

And when that happens, all one can ask for is a quiet retirement, a life of peace, a refuge behind high walls and higher trees. That is what one might ask for; more than what one might deserve.

And if one might be clasped in an unrelenting embrace, sheltered under an undeserved plumage, and seized as if on wings into heaven itself?

It is a new year, and I lie in my benefactor’s arms, and there is no place on God’s earth that I would rather be.

**Author's Note:**

> So grateful to miss m for the speediest of betas on Saint- Sylvestre! 
> 
> [A history of pens](http://www.actforlibraries.org/the-history-of-pens-and-writing-instruments/).


End file.
